


Without You

by Ordinarily



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Best Friends, Child Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I have such a thing for the best friends trope and i'm not sorry, Swearing, Underage Drinking, no bullies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-25 17:52:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14982431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ordinarily/pseuds/Ordinarily
Summary: Things are bad at home but Peter's place has card games, alcohol, snuggles and... Peter.





	Without You

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I've never personally gone through abuse, I don't know what it's like, but I hope this helps more than hurts anyone.

Peter stumbles in, flicking on the light and loosening the knot in his tie, collapsing onto the unmade bed—suit and all. With his eyes closed, he tosses onto his side, lazily blinking before letting out a shrill scream and suddenly he’s more awake than he’s been all night. (Y/N)’s lips quirk and she stares at him through her lashes.

 He scrambles as a light flickers on in the hallway, May’s voice traveling through his closed door moments later. “Everything alright, Peter?”

“Y-yeah,” he calls, “just… saw a s-spider.” And even as the words leave his mouth, he looks like he regrets them.

“Nice,” (Y/N) snickers and he scowls at her, leaping out of bed.

May asks him how it went. His replies are vague and instead he says he’ll tell her all about it tomorrow. She bids him a tired goodnight and the light in the hall flickers off. It’s a good thing it’s late. He’s surprised she even went to bed; he expected her to be up all night, pacing back and forth in their small living room and worrying her lip until he walked through the front door and she could attack him with concerns of possible injury and excited pestering. He peels the suit jacket from his shoulders and begins unbuttoning his shirt.

“Aw, but you look so good dressed up,” (Y/N) drawls from her lax position, forcing herself not to ogle his back. His gorgeous, muscled back.

He glances at her, a look of incredulity on his face. “Thanks.” 

And it comes out cold enough to make her pout. “How was it?”

“How do you think it was?” he mutters, undoing his belt. He half-turns to her. “I had to play Iron Man’s intern all night.” She winces at him, a quiver of sympathy, before regaining her sedateness. She’s about to speak again when he cuts her off. “Are you ever _not_ in my apartment?”

“May likes me better than you,” she says flatly.

“I thought you had that project due.” He throws on his night shirt and begins searching for bottoms. 

“Done,” she replies, and when he looks at her she gestures to the stack of paper on his desk and the pile of books by her backpack at the foot of his bed.

“Why don’t you just move in,” he mutters dryly, digging through piles of _her_ clothes in _his_ dresser.

“Gee, thanks for the offer.” When he finally finds pyjama pants, he turns and finds her scrolling through her phone, a hint of an expression on her face that causes guilt to sucker punch him one. “It’s already two.”

“And I’m ready to pass the fuck out. Shut off the light,” he adds, crossing the room to dig into his suit pants. 

She complies, reaching over to his night table and then the room is engulfed in darkness. Eventually, she feels the bed dip and hears him charge his phone. It’s quiet for a little while before she says his name in a voice so soft it’s nearly a whisper. He hums. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“I may as well have been a waiter,” he starts slowly, speaking to the dimness. She reaches out, blindly touching his arm and realizes he’s facing her again. “I stumbled over my words and bumped into guests and did you know there are _five_ different types of dinner forks? Apparently even Thor knows that.” She can nearly see him shaking his head. “God, it was a fucking mess.” The bed moves a little. “And then Tony got drunk and I just awkwardly followed him the whole night. I don’t know why I even went.” 

“Peter, come on. It must’ve been amazing meeting all the Avengers.”

“Not when they think you’re kissing ass for school credit.” He sighs and she bunches the pillow under her head, squinting to see him. “The whole night I just wanted to shout, ‘Hey, I’m Spider-Man! I help, guys! I’m like _you_!’” He gives a little humourless laugh. “But even that’s kind of a lie, isn’t it?”

“Peter…”

“Did snag one of these, though,” he says and it takes a little bit until she feels his hand close over hers and finds a tiny glass bottle in her palm. “Don’t worry, they won’t miss it.” She turns it over, feeling the cool surface and barely hearing the liquid slosh around. 

“Are you sure?" 

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“I mean… Tomorrow’s Saturday.” 

“And May has a morning shift.”

They’ve already convinced themselves but neither of them move. Finally she says, “It’s not enough to get us drunk, is it?”

He shakes his head before realizing she can’t see it. “Tipsy, at most.”

She taps her nails against it, the sound making her uneasy. “Okay.”

“Okay?” 

“Yeah. Sounds like you need it.”

“You have no idea.”

***

“I’m sorry I was mean to you,” he slurs, taking another swig. 

“The hell is this stuff?” she asks instead, reaching for the bottle to squint at the label. The letters blur together and she erupts into fits of giggles instead.

“You mean the world to me, you know that (Y/N)?”

She throws herself at him, grabbing his face with her hands. “Too good for this world, Pete. You’re too good.” 

He smiles through squished cheeks, a gesture so innocent she tackles him into a hug. They fall to the floor, a crumpled, chaotic, cackling mess.

“I didn’t…” starts Peter, pausing like he forgot his train of thought altogether before trying again. “I didn’t mean it when I said you’re always here. You can stay. I don’t mind.” 

“No, you were right. I’m here a lot.”

“I know why.”

She hums, lapping at the empty bottle. 

Eventually they decide to play strip poker—they’re not really sure how it came up or whose idea it was but neither of them know how to play poker so they settle for strip go-fish instead. They start whispering because May has work in the morning and through Peter’s foggy rationale, he thinks they’re being just a little too loud. 

Maybe it’s karma, but he loses the first round. His shirt comes off, slow and sensual and he wiggles his hips and bites his lip in an attempt at satirical salaciousness. Despite her rise in body temperature, she covers her mouth to suppress snickers.

He gives her one of those winning grins, taking pride in that muffled laughter.

He loses the next two rounds and decides to go for both his socks, because he’s feeling a little naked here and Peter Parker’s got quite the competitive bone. Actually, he doesn’t. So just what the hell is this liquor doing to him? 

She loses the ability to differentiate between sixes and nines, cocking her head to the side and holding cards out in front of her, angling those too. That’s the only reason he wins that round and he’s about to suggest they stop, she’s drunk and he doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable. But she peels her shirt off before he can even form words, and then _he’_ s the uncomfortable one. He figured she’d go for a sock first, an accessory even, just to tease him a little. Instead, she mimics his bold move, obviously without thinking it through because the second his gaze falls lower, her rogue smirk goes slack and she seems to remember the decorative periwinkle and amethyst hues covering her body. 

And then she’s shaking her head, silently begging him to just _drop it, Peter, not tonight._

But he can’t. He can’t. He can’t. He _can’t._

“(Y/N)…” It’s soft and breathless and she barely hears it but there’s visceral sorrow behind it, so of course she does.

“One more game? Or… a movie? ‘Monopoly', even. We could always just—”

Peter doesn’t hear any of it. “I thought you said it was getting better.”

She sighs covering her face. “It… was.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“What is there left to say?” 

He stands up after her as she turns away, struggling to regain her composure. From behind her, he traces light scars across her back, and fresh bruising… swollen muscles and bloody scrapes.

“God, this is bad.”

“Oh don’t sugarcoat it or anything,” she says, passively. 

“I’m sorry, I—it’s bad, (Y/N). You have to know how bad this is.” 

“It’s… just give it a little longer, okay?” 

“How much longer?” His voice cracks as he moves the hair from her neck to reveal yet another set of wounds. 

“He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

Peter’s gaze flickers up, teary-eyed and shaky. “It’s not an excuse.” She turns around slowly, and meets his eye. There are more cuts along her chest and he heaves a brittle sigh, reaching out to run his fingers along them. She lets him, even though it stings and she’s embarrassed. The second she winces, he stops. “Please let me tell someone. Please, please, please, please, (Y/N), please.” She gives the tiniest shake of her head and Peter feels like the room is collapsing in on itself. “You can’t keep living like this. The yelling is one thing…”

Their bare skin touches as he envelops her in a hug he wishes would mend all her scattered pieces. He rocks her back and forth a little, resting his chin on her shoulder, trying his best to fill the gaping hole her father has spent the last few years digging. Deeper and deeper, breaking this girl word by nasty word, punch by sickening punch.  

“I think I’m incapable of love,” she told him once during a sleepover, only because that’s how life had been recently and she hadn’t felt profound, tenacious affection in so, _so_ long.

After that, he took upon himself to make sure she felt it. Every single time they spoke he wanted her to know. 

His warmth and words are too much for her now, so she pulls her shirt back over her head and sits on his bed, offering him a little smile. “I’m okay, Pete. I swear. It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

And that… that is what scares him more than any villain he’s ever faced. Because (Y/N)’s smiling and shrugging, bruised and beat, and hasn’t mentioned a word about it in months, because supposedly the man was getting help and getting better but the proof is right in front of him. 

It’s all bullshit. 

Peter shakes his head, flopping next to her and folding his head in his hands. “You’re not. You’re not okay. We don’t lie to each other, (Y/N).” 

Her face falls. “It’s quiet.” He looks up at her to find her staring out his window, curtains only a little drawn. “You could hear a pin drop in that place. And somehow, it’s worse than the screaming.” Tears prick her eyes and she takes deep breaths through her nose, willing them to stop. And they do, they listen, she’s gotten good at this whole emotions thing.

Peter takes her hand, sobriety kicking inebriation six ways to Sunday, but she pulls away, crawling to the top of his bed and under the covers, volunteering another one of those poised smiles. He joins her, a good few inches apart.  

“I thought being drunk was supposed to be fun,” she says softly.

“Yeah, wait 'til the hangover,” he whispers back.

They are usually pretty careful about distance when they share a bed. Even if they somehow wind up facing each other, they’re cautious about physical touch. They’d shared beds together ever since they were kids, and not once had it ended up weird. Even if Peter woke up with her head wedged in his side or knee poking his thigh, it wasn’t anything to blush over. Even if (Y/N) woke up with his face millimetres from hers or his arm trapped underneath her, she never thought anything of it. They were all flukes, and flukes were nothing foreign to the two. Tonight, however, Peter finds himself invading her space, close enough that her back touches his front and he deliberately slings an arm over her waist to pull her nearer. 

And that’s how they stay. 

* * *

 In the morning, she’s gone and his stomach fills with dread. He pads to the kitchen, feeling like a bunch of tiny construction workers are drilling into his skull—like that one commercial for pain relievers—and pours himself a bowl of cereal. He texts (Y/N) to complain, although he’s sure she’s feeling much of the same. As he’s closing the app, he notices another recent one open; notes. It’s from her—a small thank you note, for the liquor and the company—and his heart melts. 

He spends the entire day wishing he could smash his head against the wall because he’s convinced that would hurt less than his current hangover and then May comes home and he helps her with dinner. They talk about the Stark Gala and he gives her the less mopey version than the one he gave (Y/N). The “Steve Rogers is so cool and Tony was amazing, as always, and Thor is, like, crazy strong, and Natasha is so pretty up close—and witty too!—and Bruce is actually really funny after a couple of drinks, it was all so awesome” version. She’s happy for him and plants a peck on his forehead before turning on the faucet, mentioning how nice it was of Tony to have invited his intern. Peter hums, trying to ignore flashbacks of a drunk, slurring Mr. Stark, dancing wildly to _Footloose_ or sneaking off with Pepper later in the evening, leaving one lonely teenager at an empty, elaborately decorated table.  

May speaks up again, a little more hesitant this time. “Hey, um, was (Y/N) over last night?”

He stiffens. “No… why do you ask?”

“I swear I heard her voice… And I know she drops in sometimes. To be fair, I _was_ half-asleep.”

Peter’s not really sure why he lies. “Must’ve been a dream or something. She’ll probably be over tonight though, if that’s okay.”

“Of course, she’s always welcome here.” Turning off the tap and drying her hands, an unreadable expression crosses her face, like she’s unsure whether she’s allowed to ask. “How… how is she?”

“Says it’s better,” he replies, brusquely. “I don’t know how much I believe her, though.”

May wanders over to where he’s chopping carrots, leaning against the counter. “Is it worse than she makes it out to be?” Peter stops his movements altogether, uncertain if he should say something. Eventually he settles for not saying anything at all, and only nods, avoiding her gaze. She nods back, like she understands. “Is there anything we can do?”

Slowly, he shakes his head, tears brimming his eyes all over again. His aunt rests her hands on his shoulders and chin on his head. She always knows how to comfort him and it makes him feel years younger, although he knows that’s never her intention. She doesn’t say anything else but there’s this sentiment of ‘you let me know, okay?’ hanging in the air, and the decision looming over his head since yesterday intensifies. Like a precarious weight on his shoulders someone decided to try tipping for nothing more than cheap laughs.  

He nods again, and manages a smile as she ruffles his hair. 

The rest of the night is quiet. It’s late again when Peter gets seriously worried about his best friend. It’s not like her to ignore texts for this long and she tends to swing by more often on weekends but he hasn’t heard a word since yesterday. Finally, he gives in, and climbs the couple of flights up to her bedroom window. He figures the fire escape is a little safer than her front door, if he wants to be stealthy about this. Although, if he really wanted to, he could always spidey his way up there. He figures he’ll go with the less suspicious option as of now though. No need to involve superheroes, not yet anyway. 

He peaks through her window and sees a lump in bed, so he knocks softly. She doesn’t move, doesn’t even stir, and his worry grows. Slowly, he slides open her window and clambers in, whispering her name as quietly as he can.

He meanders over to the bed, gently shaking her. Finally, the blankets move and she looks up at him, blinking hazily. His heart drops. “Oh, no, no, (Y/N), what did he do to you?” 

Groggily, she sits up, “Peter?”

He pulls her into a hug, cradling her, before she tells him that he shouldn’t be here.

He draws back, gingerly touching a thumb to the bruises around her eye. “No, I think I should be here, actually.”

“He got mad,” she whispers. “Found out I snuck out yesterday.”

Yelling echoes in her ears. Something about whoring around with the neighbour kid and underaged drinking, although she wasn’t exactly sure how he smelled the alcohol on her what with how much he’d been consuming as of late. Either way, he wasn’t happy and lessons had to be taught. Her phone was long gone, not to mention her laptop and she was left to do homework the old fashioned way, blood dripping its way onto her notebooks. 

“Okay, I’m gonna get you out of here.”

She pulls back instantly, shaking her head fervently at him. “He’ll find out, you’ll make it worse.” 

She’s all but begging him and something in his chest squeezes. “This is abuse. There aren’t any excuses for it. You’re not going to be daddy’s little punching bag anymore, okay?” 

“Peter, please, he’s working on it. I shouldn’t have snuck out—I—” 

“No, (Y/N),” he struggles to keep his voice low and levelled. “This isn’t… this isn’t love.”

He can tell he’s hit a nerve, that she’s at a breaking point, so he scoops her up and makes his way back down to his apartment, urgently calling out for May as he careens through his open window. She comes rushing in, freezing at the sight of the girl going in and out of consciousness and scrambles to get cold towels and ice. Peter stays with her, offering her water, which she fights to stay awake to drink. 

In the light, she looks worse. Battered and marred, and this never should have happened. He got a foreboding preview of it last night—he should have said something. 

May shakes her head, breathing heavily. “I think I should call the police.”

A wave of exhaustion passes over (Y/N), and then another, so she lets herself slip into slumber, consequences be damned. Peter bites his lip. “We can’t cause a scene.”

May seems unconvinced, realizing for the first time that her nephew is also afraid of this man. She glances at the poor girl collapsed on the bed, takes in her sliced lip and bruised eye and swollen cheek and jaw. It’s not okay, it’s not, and this man has no right to instil fear in these kids. 

She dials _911_ and explains the situation as calmly as she can. With the knowledge that (Y/N)’s unconscious, however, the dispatcher says she has no choice but to send over paramedics—internal bleeding, blunt force trauma, broken bones, they’re all possibilities. So they march in, wheel her out on a stretcher, Peter begging to follow, and damnit if the kid doesn’t have a talent for the puppy dog routine. May finds herself alone in her apartment, face to face with the man responsible for all of this. He shouts at her—they can’t just break into his private property and take his _daughter_ from him. 

May narrows her eyes. “You want to bet?”

The man huffs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He looks different that she’d imagined him. Not particularly tall or buff, or even all that rugged. Just… sort of normal. Like some businessman who sits at a sleazy cubical from nine to five.  

“That if you can’t take care of your _daughter,_ you don’t get to have her. And, sir, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you _can’t_ take care of her.” 

She watches as he clenches his jaw, breathing in hotly through his nose. For a moment, she almost thinks he’s going to strike her, but then he storms out of her living room, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the picture frames on the walls, and May lets out a breath. If there’s anything, one thing at all, that she and Steve Rogers have in common, it’s that they don’t like bullies.  

***

(Y/N) stays with them. Her father was forced out of the apartment for the time being, child protection services don’t screw around apparently, and although it’s perfectly empty and untouched, she can’t be there alone. She knows, she tried the first few nights and found herself crawling down to Peter’s bedroom window, trembling and restless.  

It’s only for a little while, just until her mom’s parents can move all her stuff out and into their place. They’re the only family she has left, really, anyone in the state of New York at least. It’s a forty minute drive from their current apartment complex, but if it means she’s safe, Peter can live with that. She’ll still be at school, and even though he’ll miss having her around, they’ll still see each other whenever they can. They’re both pretty clingy people, sadly enough, so he’s not worried about their relationship too much. They’ve been friends for so long, a little bit of distance isn’t going to change much.

He gets home from school early to find her in front of the TV. She jolts when the door opens, whipping around, and her shoulders noticeably relax when she sees him. She ended up being okay (thankfully), aside from the superficial wounds, so she gets to come back to class soon, and honestly, Peter can’t wait. The vacant desk in math is a constant reminder of her absence and even Ned is growing impatient. 

She asks him how his day was and he drops a stack of homework on the coffee table. (Y/N) winces and he laughs. “That’s for you.” 

Her expression goes sour. “I love high school.” 

He grins and plops down on the couch next to her. “How are you?”

“Watched a full season of _Supernatural_ today, so I’m _great_.”

Peter’s smile grows impossibly wider. “I’m gonna miss you like hell.”

“No you won’t. I’ll still see you at lunch to bitch about some dickhead kid or teacher on a power trip. And I’ll text you with homework questions and unsolicited opinions. It’ll be like I’m not even gone.”

“I know... I’ve just gotten so used to coming home to you.”

“Better not wear it out then.”

Peter shakes his head. “I wouldn’t get tired of it. Even on the bad days.”

“I think May might disagree with you on that one.”

“Nah, she loves you.”

(Y/N) shakes her head, sheepishly. “You guys... you’re the best family I could ask for. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. Seriously. Without you, I’d probably be—” She takes a breath, steadying herself. “Thank you.”

He smiles and nods, noting the undertone of sorrow in her words. “We’re always here for you.” He catches this flicker in her eye that reminds him of one of her breakdowns and he shudders involuntarily. She’s been holding up suspiciously well. He folds his hands and slumps forward, gauging the way her breathing shifts and her lips twitch. “You don’t… you don’t have to fake it, you know?” 

“I’m tired of being this broken little girl.”

Peter reckons he knows the feeling.  

“You’re not. You’ve patched yourself up, over and over again. And you did it in silence. God knows you’ve put my pieces back together too, one too many times. You… you’ll be okay again.”

Her voice wavers. “And if I’m not?”

“I’ll get a toolbox and a giant tube of glue.”

She grins, choking sobs as he brings his arms around her, letting her lose it. She blubbers about being worthless and she’s the reason her mom left and everyone hates her, she’s good for nothing, she’s— 

He lets her get all of it out and then counteracts with she’s worth the world and her dad was a damaged bastard, and everyone loves her, really, she has the kindest soul and— 

They’ll move in together down the line, find each other at some fancy college upstate, riding on full scholarships and things will be alright. Good, even. They’ll decorate with cheap, just out-of-style furniture and make sure they eat at least one meal together every day, even if it’s a midnight snack in the middle of cramming for finals. And for now, Spider-Man will swing by her place whenever he can, and they’ll get that graduation picture they’ve always wanted. They’ll go to prom together, with Ned and Michelle and drink half their weight in beer and it’ll be the greatest night of their lives. And maybe it has a twinge of rose-gold but so what? Shouldn’t they be allowed to hope for their futures? 

Shouldn’t they get to dream of the path where everything’s okay?

So they do. And they talk about the colour they’ll paint their kitchen and the dress MJ will wear to prom and the shared snobby classmate they’ll have to deal with and the campus parties they won’t be invited to. The speculation stops somewhere around there and they decide to start on supper before May comes home. The conversation topic hops elsewhere but one night, in that shared apartment, a ten minute walk from TSI College, he’ll stumble home with the Spidey suit in shambles and Tony’s voice stuttering over the wrecked com and (Y/N) will cover her mouth, tears pricking her eyes. And she’ll run over to him and he’ll be completely out of it, numb and hard as stone, with short quips and curt replies, until he eventually breaks, and rips the speaker out himself, smashing it just outside their doorstep. And she’ll usher him in, tending to his crushed spirit, just like she always does, and Peter will be eternally grateful, just too stubborn to admit it at that very moment. And he’ll reach for a bottle, struggling to free himself of the hot metal and needing something to drown his pitfalls in but she’ll kiss him before he gets to it—on instinct and because her heartstrings threaten to snap at his broken demeanour. But once he starts kissing her, he won’t be able to stop and she’s his new drug. It’s not alcohol or fighting or denigrating himself—it’s (Y/N).  

And that’s probably the healthiest addiction they’ll let themselves get spellbound to: each other.

***


End file.
